“Raven, Black as pitch
Mystical as the Moon
Speak to me of magic,
I will fly with you soon.”

Following a disturbing vision of a futuristic, thought controlled fighter craft, Marc Lewes undertook research to explain away the imagery. Far from being deluded fantasy, he collated information from a variety of independent sources to conclude that, somewhere in the world, this awesome, horrific craft does in fact exist. He calls it the Raven.

PART ONE – MIND CONTROL

“I was stationary – atop a ridge. It was night, and everything was still, potent. Soon, prosaic orange lights attracted my attention. In the distance, in rows, marking out what seemed to be a small runway. I went closer, to discover that they were in fact marking out some sort of compound. The soulless feeling of the place caused me to shiver – there seemed to be no spiritual radiance anywhere – even the lights seemed artificial, illusionary, as if they served no other purpose except to illuminate the extremely sinister object squat down on the ground some distance away, loathsome in its savage purity and noxious beauty. It was like the Devil as machine. I watched in a frozen mental embrace, captive to my discovery for a while.”

Section of Raven transcripts, from personal vision, circa 1994.

Remote viewing? Astral projection? Mere pyrrhic fantasy? As I was to discover, the awful truth lay in reality rather than in my mind’s eye. The object described is, in all probability, a new breed of bio-aware fighting craft, an Anglo-American hyper-secret venture. A craft possessing not only anti-gravity capability, but psychic interfacing, lethal + non-lethal weapon capacity, non-combustive power plant and a fluid filled cockpit. Using updated Tesla technology, the latest particle/wave beam offensive and defensive arsenals, drawing on some four decades of high-level, mind-shattering psychical and technological research, the resultant attack craft is nothing if not terrifying.

As astonishing and fantastic as all this may seem, perhaps a conglomeration of too many sci-fi films, fringe literature and hostile projection, unfortunately research and outrageous coincidences led me to believe in at least the stark possibility of such a machine existing, or being under construction. Consider that the SR-11 ‘Blackbird’ technology goes as far back as the Sixties, and Stealth bomber advancements can be traced back to the Seventies, then we have at least twenty years of occult scientific advancement which, to my knowledge, has not been revealed in any tangible form. This is not a UFO problem. The ship I saw was of terrestrial origin, from the very fact that I sensed human involvement, and indeed a human pilot, behind the pitch black flanks and rind of the flying beast.

I do not want to reveal much ideological or political information behind this as yet, because research is ongoing. I was ‘discovered’, in that lonely, desperate spot by the ‘watchers’, or masters of the project, as the entire setup is run, typically, by deranged Government military splinter groups. But these people have strong psychic abilities – indeed this is the crux of their power. For many months I lived in a state of subliminal threat, and ceased to investigate further. Truth will Out, as they say, and, for my sins, this article was born.

Perhaps some readers may have heard of Landig’s Point 109. This was supposedly a secret meeting place, where high level members of the scientific and political groups, from all countries were to meet, near the North Pole, in the latter years of WWII. The purpose was to reveal Nazi V3 technology, the fabled WWII UFO’s (Foo Fighters). Apparently, some propulsion method beyond simple rocket science had been invented…or given. The Morris Jessup information published in the 50’s, following Project Rainbow revelations? Russian secret science? This, however, ties up with hollow Earth theories, and is now almost mythological. Fascinating, but largely inconclusive. The answers lay with hard, if not occult science.

The Dark Craft, or ‘Raven’ as I dubbed it would not go away, and continues to persist. All the while it is in my consciousness, darting about in its inimitable way, dominating the airspace, its energy waves ‘irradiating’ water as it flew low level. Its propulsion unit glowing like the coals of hell, crystal/wave dynamics producing finely attuned beams of energy. Surging it forward like a thought. The whitened, albino pilot, in the womb like cockpit, literally thinking his way around, sensing threat, mindfully activating counter attack. Who was behind this? How was it conceived and constructed?

My first investigations led me to a man codenamed ‘Penguin’ – Col. John B. Alexander (US Army Intelligence and Security Command – read NSA). An ex-commander of Green Beret Special Forces in Vietnam, he is also the man who first came up with the concept of non-lethal weapons 19 years ago. In December of 1980 he published an article in the US Army Journal, Military Review, entitled ‘The New Mental Battlefield’. This gained the attention of senior Army generals who encouraged him to pursue his nefarious work. In the article, he mentions that telepathy could interfere with the brain’s electrical activity (telepathy was scientifically and irrefutably proven by secret Russian experiments using rabbits on submarines as far back as the 1960’s).

Retiring from Army life in 1988, he joined Los Alamos National Laboratories, infamous for weapons research, working with Janet Morris, the Research Director for US Global Strategy Council (USGSC). She is also the co-author of ‘The Warrior’s Edge’, initiated into the art of Bio-energetics, and graduated from the Silva course in advanced mind control. More to the point, she has been conducting remote viewing experiments for fifteen years, and researching the effects of the mind on probability in computer systems. That two highly qualified, radically thinking people collaborated on such strange and disturbing projects, under the auspices of the US Government, seemed incredible. Perhaps, after all, my vision might have some credence, some basis of reality. The connections were, as we shall see, too powerful, too direct, too circular. There seemed a common goal for all these disparate, strange people and their occult research. I had a feeling I knew what it was.

Los Alamos, mentioned earlier, prides itself on cutting edge weapons research, notably the atom bomb, and is relatively well known. What is less well known is the fact that immediately after the Second world war, it was mostly staffed by ex-Nazi scientists. Not one or two, but several hundred. Starting as Operation Lusty, when Germany was scoured for scientific blueprints, prototypes, and scientific papers the Allies soon realised that there was a wealth of superior technology and information. Colonel Donald Putt, the man in charge, decided that he wanted more than the scientific spoils of war – he wanted the brains behind them. Thus Operation Paperclip was born, and the Nazi scientists were shipped over, including the notorious Albert Speer, and Herr Kammler, architect of Auschwitz.

Thus, with blood on their hands, these men were soon contributing to and shaping the destiny of the American space programme, culminating, of course, with the Apollo moon landing. What is clear is that without Nazi technology, this would never have been possible. It was to this legacy that Colonel Alexander wedded himself, working for the USGSC, with great interest in mind-control and non-lethal weaponry, such as microwave devices. This man seemed at the hub of the problem, the vision I had experienced some four years ago.

So far, I had established, if the research was to be trusted, that certain top-level mind-control programmes were in operation, and had been for decades. This is well known, but to have a clear link with the control of computer systems, such as Janet Morris’ research was fantastic. This tied in with the notion of a thought controlled craft, piloted from a bio-reactive cockpit, one filled with fluid and sensory devices. Rather than a ‘brain link’, there were no direct links – a mesmeric, highly attuned psychic interface through months of conditioning. Is such a thing possible? Could a person be trained to such a degree, and deal with the split second decision making of combative avionics? Of course! Using a combination of Neuro Linguistic Programming, meditation, psychotronic development (interface with machines), bio-energetics, a reactive sensory medium (such as the fluid)…does all this sound ridiculous? Perhaps it may come as a surprise that the first incident of a computer reacting to thought patterns was in 1974 when neurophysiologist and electronic engineer Lawrence Pinneo, working for Stanford Research Institute (a military contractor), came up with a system that was able to correlate brain waves off an ECG with specific commands. As far back as then a computer could respond by moving a dot on a TV screen. Obviously this is very basic, but we have had 25 years to develop much more sophisticated systems. Enhanced states, drug induced or low level directed electromagnetic waves combined with these new systems would enable someone to largely pilot a craft with their mind alone.

There is a wealth of information that I cannot go into here. Needless to say, the information is overwhelming in favour of this craft, the Raven, being easily realised. I split the investigation into five areas, which will be explored later briefly in part 2 of this treatise. I had established tentatively that a mind/complex machine interface might be possible, something a little more organic and holistic than Firefox. But what about propulsion? The weaponry? The funding? Why hadn’t anyone else seen, or mentioned it? Why the strange effects I saw in further visions as it flew low level? I had my man – John Alexander, and his cohorts. But his modus operandi was all theory, all in the mind. How did the collusion between him, the air force and secret weapons programmes come about? And was there any defence against this seemingly invincible dark fighting machine which sullied the skies?

I was to find out that the answers, as usual, were where I least expected them to be.
MARC LEWES

To be continued…

Being the adventures of young men whose interests are beer, travel and (in a suitably “ironic” way of course) the Eurovision Song Contest

Though in my student years I covered most of Western Europe on Inter-Rail forays, I’d never really been to Germany, save a few days in Berlin – with exquisite timing mere weeks before the wall came down. But a steadily increasing appreciation of things Germanic (not least foaming things, served in half-litre glasses) meant that when Rob Dyer, editor of Dark Star magazine, suggested I join his party for a long weekend in Hamburg, little persuasion was needed. It seemed so simple: get cheap accomodation, fly over, and engage in social intercourse with our European colleagues.

Theory. Practice. They’re not even spelt similarly. We forgot to take into account that the weekend we’d chosen was the Harbour Festival, probably the biggest party of the year. Plus the German Tennis Open was taking place there, and it was also the weekend that an estimated 30,000 Kaiserslautern fans descended on Hamburg to celebrate clinching the Bundesliga title. Thus, our trio eventually camped out in a leafy suburb, kind of the Hamburgian equivalent of Camberley, 35 minutes walk from the end of the S-Bahn line in the delightfully named Poppenhüttel.

However, this was by no means a bad thing, as the dead calm of this residential area provided a nice contrast to the hustle and bustle of the town centre. We were staying in an upstairs flat, with all mod cons –­ though the cooker didn’t exactly see a lot of use. But we did get to watch late-night cable TV; it’s kinda odd watching Jackie Chan’s “Police Story” dubbed into German, but after about five minutes the novelty value wore off and we switched to the steady diet of undressed Frauleins available on another channel. No language barriers there.

Speaking of which, I had to blow the rust off my German: I had stopped studying it in 1981, and had hardly used a word since. It was weird: I’d be able to completely understand one sentence on a poster, and not have the slightest clue about the next. [Mind you, some didn’t need translation – you may think the adverts for H&M here are raunchy, but the German versions have more in common with Penthouse photo-shoots] However, I wasn’t going to need to discuss Nietzsche: asking whether I could pay by credit card was about as tricky as it got.

And the answer to that was almost invariably “Nein”, worth bearing in mind for any other potential travellers. Which was a shame, as I had deliberately undercut the amount of cash, with the expectation that a highly developed country like Germany would be on the cutting edge of electronic commerce. Not so: if you can’t scratch a window with it, they won’t accept it. Also, while during the week, shops are often open till 8pm or so, on Saturdays they shut at 4pm – and by five, Hamburg city centre was deserted: Romero could have filmed another zombie movie there, if it wasn’t for the tumbleweeds rolling down Main Street. For Germans seem to start partying late, and go on late. We went into a restaurant at 6pm, and were the only customers, though this meant we could chill out there for a couple of hours, after a long day trekking round the town. By the time we emerged though, approaching 9pm, things were beginning to wake up again – so where better to head than the world-renowned Reeperbahn?

It was somewhat different to what I expected: to start with, it’s far broader, being a dual carriageway. It probably has more in common with Paris’s Pigalle than Amsterdam, mixing bars, sex shops, fast food joints, strip clubs and all the other ephemera of modern late-night life. You did, however, have to be impressed by the sheer scale; some of the shops in the World of Sex chain were probably coming close to the size of Tower Records at Piccadily Circus. You name it, they had it – although unlike Amsterdam (the obvious benchmark for all red-light districts world-wide!), a “no children, no pets” rule was in effect.

The area was heaving: Saturday night, and a good proportion of the football fans seemed to have stayed, though there was no sign of any trouble, despite their boisterous and loud celebrations And nowhere was more heaving than the street where the prostitutes worked – easily locatable, since it’s the one next to the police station. The crowds were understandable, because the Hamburg hookers were, almost without exception, drop dead gorgeous. Under normal circumstances, you’d happily gnaw off the majority of your own limbs to sleep with women like them. There were a mix of street-walkers, and Amsterdam style window-booths, the latter located in a road which was sealed off at each end, presumably to prevent passers-by being offended by the sight of lingerie-clad lovelies. One difference to Amsterdam though: few of the girls were ethnic, almost all being white – possibly East European? One slow lap round there (trying desperately to avoid eye contact, which would have been as fatal for my morals as gazing at Medusa) and we needed beer.

We found a bar nearby, and tucked ourselves in the back, under the TV which was showing the Eurovision Song Contest, without sound – they were playing a bizarre mix of oompah and Neil Diamond on the stereo instead. As the acts came to an end, and the voting began, the place suddenly got packed out. Not surprising, the scoring is always the best bit; I have happy memories of sitting in front of the TV with reams of paper. Of course, now I’ve discovered baseball… We were cheering every time Germany got a point (their entrant being the fabulous Guildo Horn, giving the contest the seriousness it deserves, with a song whose chorus went “Peep! Peep! Peep! I love you!”), cheering every time Britain got a point, and shouting “But it’s a bloke!” every time the trans-sexual Israeli entry turned up. Beer was hurled at the TV set, Israel eventually won, and we staggered out into the night, to look once more at some real women. It truly has to go down as one of the most surreal experiences of my life.

I must mention the beer, which was in general good to excellent. Even though we had no real idea what we were doing, and every bar seemed to have a different selection (beyond the ubiquitous Holsten), pretty much everything was drinkable. And we did. Repeatedly. Odd to have bars which have menus, and where you don’t pay for each round, but run up a tab. And distinctly pleasant, after last year’s American trip, to have bar-staff who don’t expect a gratuity, simply for doing their job. [Some may complain about the lack of ice in drinks here – but when it comes to tipping barmen, I am most definitely with Steve Buscemi]

Our sole source of English info was a quirky free booklet, ‘Top Info’, picked up at the airport. Here’s are a couple of examples of it’s extraordinary, understated style:

“The Hafenmeile…is an extensive (and crowded) funfair-style area all along the river banks by Landungsbrucken which – assuming you are suitably dressed to pre-empt pickpockets and protect yourself from capricious changes in the weather, and as long as you don’t go all panicky in large crowds – can be fairly pleasant”

“Opposite the Markthalle is the City Hof Passage. This must be the ugliest shopping mall in Hamburg, but as we know from our tedious day-to-day experiences ugliness is only skin-deep and within this monstrosity of infantile lego-stone architecture food from three nations awaits you…To top it all, a very cheap bikers shop is also in the mall; the discount helmet line is well recommended, especially if you are planning on going to the fun fair”.

Precisely why a biker’s helmet should be needed is never explained, we braved the fair without its protection, and emerged unscathed. It was a pleasant enough diversion and a very good way to spend a sunny afternoon – nice to discover that large number of stalls, all selling T-shirts with the same tacky slogans, is not a phenomena restricted to the West End.

On Sunday, we did some more meandering, even though by this stage, my boots were literally falling apart. We headed for the west of the City, as that seemed to be where things like record shops were located. This gave us an insight into another side of Hamburg; Turkish shops, student hangouts, lots of graffiti, that kind of thing. It was all very relaxed and laid back, in some ways it almost felt more like New York than anywhere in Europe.

This was but a precursor to the day’s main event, a concert by industro-classical group In the Nursery at the Markthalle, which was the excuse for the weekend’s jaunt. The venue looked like a converted auction house, with a stepped ring around a central flat area, which would be ideal for, oh, bare-knuckle bouts or cock-fighting. The stage was only a little higher, and I ended up leaning against the speaker stacks, virtually on a level with the band, and briefly toyed with the idea of helping out on some songs… The concert itself was great – ­how can you dislike a band who for half their numbers have three drummers? – and I ended up with bruises on my leg from over-enthusiastic thigh-slapping. Which would be appropriately Bavarian, if only Hamburg were in Bavaria, and not at the other end of the country. The night was ended with a local kebab; very impressive, it actually tasted of pork, and the mint sauce which it came with set the flavour off nicely.

Monday. Just time for a fast sweep round the shops. The centre of Hamburg is largely pedestrianised, which makes it very pleasant to walk around. The architecture is interesting to look at, even though most of it is post-war (courtesy of RAF Bomber Command), there’s a mix of styles which provide variety, rather than the “two different flavours of concrete” approach often seen in British city centres. The wonderfully sunny weather helps the scenery improve too…

By the time we attack a record shop or two, as well as ‘Otaku’, a bizarre establishment that sells techno music, clothes, and cult films, but also has a hairdresser’s in the back, financial resources are diminishing rapidly. By pooling our assets, we scrape together enough for lunch, the last meal on German soil being the same as our first – sausage, naturally. Mine came with curry sauce, which was…different. We headed for the airport, and used the inevitably overpriced cans of Coke to staunch our raging thirsts, and get our combined financial resources down to a satisfactory 12 pfennigs, or roughly fourpence. Thank heavens for free airplane drinks.

Customs at Gatwick was a breeze; the “blue” channel, for flights from within the EU, was staffed by one thoroughly disinterested officer, provoking the inevitable annoyance at not having stocked up in a major league way on contraband (the stun-guns seen in one shop had been especially tempting). I think they should stamp your passport on the way out, telling you in advance whether you’re going to get stopped or not; it would make things so much easier. Maybe they could also introduce duty free limits for pornography, alongside those for cigars and booze: “four erections or two penetrations or one ejaculation” perhaps.

Hamburg is an excellent place for a short break, though I suspect it would probably be less lively over a ‘normal’ weekend. Regardless, I think you could find plenty of stuff to do; we hardly needed to bother, with the cultural aspects particularly well ignored. A return visit would certainly be welcome – but there are a few other European cities worth a visit too, such as…

Prague

Readers may recall, if their memories stretch back to the dim and distant past of, ooh, three issues ago, a thoroughly entertaining week spent in and around the capital of the then-new Czech Republic. I was recently back there, and it was interesting to see how five years of unfettered capitalism had changed things. Er, well, not that much actually. I was expecting it to be wall-to-wall tourists, given all the publicity the place has had over the past few years, but this was another pleasant surprise. I think we may have missed the tidal wave of backpackers which apparently hit the place shortly after democracy did. No longer being the hip and trendy destination, things seemed to have returned to normal: going in February probably did help, and we were extraordinarily lucky with the weather – T-shirts are not normal garb for that time of year.

The place remains remarkably cheap across the board. The price of beer had doubled, admittedly, but even at the dizzy heights of 40p/pint, is scarcely likely to break the bank. You just have to laugh when the bill for eleven beers and an absinthe comes to £5.60, though it makes coming back to London a real shock! Accommodation, not a concern last time, was also ludicrously cheap: less than a tenner a night each got the four of us a wonderful apartment just off the top of Wenceslas Square, with a billiard table in it. And we ate like kings, plates piled high with various forms of once-living creature, cooked in a variety of interesting ways and given bizarre Czechlish names like “Sack of Mr.Town Councillor”. [And virtually everywhere, vegetables are an optional extra] My only regret is I didn’t get to sample the traditional local kebab…

From a leisure point of view, there’s something for everyone, from brothels to churches, discos to puppet theatres, and even a giant metronome overlooking the town, for those who feel in need of rhythm. In four days, we barely scratched the surface, and could have spent twice as much time there without running out of things to do. The place is probably my favourite city in Europe, and the odds are heavily in favour of me being back there again before five more years have passed.

When you mention Hong Kong cinema to most people, what they tend to think of is action films: Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan and John Woo dominate the field by some margin. Art-house fans may mention the works of Wong Kar-Wai, and sex- and gore-hounds will talk about Cat.III classics like ‘Dr. Lamb’ or ‘Sex and Zen’. However, one genre that will be almost entirely missing from such a discussion…comedy.

There are probably several reasons why it’s largely notable by its absence from the titles released in this country. Firstly, it’s a field already well-satisfied by Hollywood. Then, while movies like ‘Hard Boiled’ and ‘Heroic Trio’ take the action genre to a whole new level, it’s much more difficult for humour to do the same. Subtitled comedies also have a poor track record generally: films like ‘Les Visiteurs’ have done nowhere near as well abroad as at home, because intellectual cinema-goers tend to shy away from anything as common as jokes. But perhaps the biggest stumbling block is a perception that these films are incomprehensible to Western viewers.

This is, in some ways, fair criticism. Even the best subtitling in the world – and heaven knows, HK films are frequently a long way short of that – ­would be hard pushed to cope with the blizzard of verbal comedy which is often their core. You feel much as an alien would watching ‘Have I Got News For You’ – though something is clearly meant to be funny, you have no idea why. Yet at their best, Hong Kong comedies are easily the equal of those coming out of Hollywood. And even at their worst, they are certainly still a damn sight more amusing than ‘Ace Ventura, Pet Detective’, even if for no other reason than a numbing feeling of disbelief at what film-makers there apparently consider fair game.

For example, take ‘Boys Are Easy’. In other hands, a storyline about a father whose dying wish is to see his daughters married could have been a touching drama or a black comedy. However, despite a stellar cast (Brigitte Lin, Chingmy Yau and Maggie Cheung are the daughters), this one is pitched closer to ‘Kingpin’, full of utterly dumb stuff like the Triad Olympics, where the races are started with a burst of automatic gunfire, and jokes about pubic hair.

Speaking of Maggie Cheung…though her reputation in the West rests partly on her role as Jackie Chan’s much put-upon girlfriend in the ‘Police Story’ series, and partly in high-brow fare like ‘Irma Vep’, she spent a lot of her early career in severely lowbrow comedy films. One such is ‘Millionaire Cop’, which also illustrates the aforementioned tendency for Hong Kong comedies to hurl anything they can think of at the screen in the quest for laughs, regardless of logic. The central plot is sound enough – a policeman must pretend to be an industrialist’s son “with hilarious results”, as the video sleeve probably says. Bolted on are things like a transplanted hand and fart jokes, as well as Cheung, whose character turns into a nymphomaniac every time she sees a round object. I use the word “bolted” advisedly, since these elements have no connection to the main plot. While the end result is not actually very funny, as such, you certainly can’t deny its originality.

Wong Jing is undoubtedly the most prolific auteur (if that’s not too strong a word) in the field; his work-rate is legendary, even if he tends to spend as much time reading the racing papers as directing. His films tend to be the cinematic equivalents of All-Star games, one of the tenets of his film philosophy seems to be “when in doubt, add another famous actor”. Witness the previously mentioned ‘Boys are Easy’, or the similarly-themed ‘Modern Romance’, which may not have Maggie Cheung, but does have almost everyone else: Christy Chung, Carrie Ng, Sandra Ng and Chingmy Yau, to name just the female leads. For once he doesn’t short change the audience on plots: there are four separate stories here, one for each lady (superstitious, lecherous, gay and jealous respectively), charting their progress through the icebergs which are…‘Modern Romance’. Given it’s basically a chick flick – albeit a highly skewed one – it’s really rather good, though it may put you off Hong Kong women for life.

Any discussion of Hong Kong humour can only lead to one man: Stephen Chow Sing-Chi. Born in 1962, he started off as a kids’ TV presenter, alongside another future star, Tony Leung, before moving into dramas, and eventually feature films. At the box-office in Hong Kong, he’s only just behind Jackie Chan, and well ahead of Chow Yun-Fat, with his “mo lei tau” (make no sense) films regularly cleaning up. Unlike his colleagues, the Western release of his work has been very limited, largely to minor movies, seeping out almost unheralded, such as ‘Legend of the Dragon’, a film most notable for a cameo by snooker ace Jimmy White. Chow’s often compared to Jim Carrey, with some justification, although his best-known characters are more sympathetic and restrained. Both do well playing “the little guy”, up against, and often getting the better of, authority figures, enmeshed in situations well beyond their control. It’s certainly possible to see Carrey in some of Chow’s roles, and indeed ‘God of Cookery’  has been slated for a Hollywood remake.

Unlike Carrey, often more irritating than endearing, even Chow’s less successful films  demonstrate his abilities. ‘All’s Well Ends Well’, for instance, is compelling evidence that HK comedy does require skill. In this ensemble piece there’s a marked contrast between bits that, while trying very hard to be funny, end up as mere frantic mugging, and sequences involving Stephen Chow and (again!) Maggie Cheung, which are several orders of magnitude better. It chronicles the obsessions, problems and entanglements of a family, valid contenders for the title of World’s Most Dysfunctional, as they progress towards the happy ending given away by the title. Large chunks border on the painful to watch, yet it’s redeemed by Chow and Cheung as a lecherous DJ and his movie-obsessed girlfriend, leading to parodies ranging from ‘Ghost’ to ‘T2’. It’s typical that weaker movies like this still have scenes which are laugh-out loud, though even I must confess there are exceptions: to these Western eyes, his ‘Chinese Odyssey’ films were completely incomprehensible. I suspect an appreciation of Oriental myth and legend would have been helpful.

Chow’s talents don’t stop at comedy. Earlier films like ‘Triad Story’ and ‘He Who Chases After the Wind’ show he can turn in perfectly decent performances in dramatic roles, without stealing scenes or over-acting. But it’s in comedy that Chow seems to be at his best, and it is there that his greatest successes and most memorable movies can be found, even if, for the moment, he remains one of Hong Kong cinema’s best kept-secrets. Unsurprisingly, given the length of his filmography, I can’t claim to have seen all of his work – of the twenty-plus which I have, here are my personal favourites.

God of Gamblers III: Back to Shanghai (Wong Jing) – Barely related to the Chow Yun Fat classic,  Stephen Chow is the ‘Saint of Gamblers’, who gets sucked back in time when his paranormal powers clash with those of the villains. Though this takes a while to get going, it’s a great set-up, with little quirks like his mobile phone not just working in 1937, but letting him call people in the 90’s for advice as he battles gangsters and strives to win the heart of a fair lady – or failing that, her mentally retarded twin sister… [Both played by, of all people, Gong Li, better known for art-house stuff like ‘Raise the Red Lantern’. Hell, this is a Stephen Chow film!] The sheer volume of good humour on display means this is certainly more enjoyable than Chow Yun Fat’s half-baked sequel, though it may fall short of the original film. Supreme moment: Chow hides a venomous snake by wearing it as a cool leather tie.

Magnificent Scoundrels (Lee Lik-Chi) – One of those, “Oh God, where to start?” films, largely thanks to an amazingly constructed plot,  virtually made up on the fly. The basic thread concerns two teams of swindlers, respectively  impersonating the owners of a vacant house, and pretending to be rich visitors. Each thinks the other is legit, and is trying to rook them out of as much as possible. The mental duelling between these opposing charlatans is the heart of the film, and is a delight to watch. In comparison, the opening and climax are somewhat lack-lustre; though the former can perhaps be excused as necessary scene-setting, the latter is a disappointment. But it’s hard to complain given the enormous amount of invention on view in the rest. Supreme moment: Amy Yip vomiting down a guy’s throat.

Love on Delivery (Lee Lik-Chi) – This showcases Chow’s talent for the character-driven; nobody plays the luckless underdog like him. Here, he’s a fast-food delivery boy, who has the misfortune to fall in love with a girl who is also being pursued by a martial-arts master. So Chow tries to learn to fight, only to fall in with a con-man; typically, he ends up learning anyway. Oh, and he can only use his skill when wearing a Garfield mask, so it’s not much use for impressing his lady, especially given all the copycats (hohoho) who follow in his wake… The film is crammed full of glorious stupidity, great characters and ends with a brilliant display where Chow tries to survive a three-round deathmatch, by not fighting his opponent. A super piss-take of the usual macho heroics, this is Very Zen, yet also Very Stephen Chow. Supreme moment: Chow and his pacifist-fu.

From Beijing with Love (Stephen Chow Sing-Chi) – Never mind Austin Powers, this is the Bond spoof to end them all, with Chow coming out of ‘retirement’ as a butcher, to safeguard China’s national riches. From an inspired parody of Bond credits (not for the last time – ‘Forbidden City Cop’ does the same thing), it’s a blizzard of gags, the best revolving around gadgets such as the shoe which cunningly conceals…a hairdryer. Chow is perfect as the deadpan ex-agent, while Anita Yuen covers both good-girl and bad-girl bases. There are many great sequences: the use of porn as an anaesthetic, an escape from a firing squad and his piano-playing all stick in my mind. Perhaps most surprising, it works almost as well viewed as an action film: like the Bond movies, it builds with a good sense of pace, towards a climax where Chow’s butchery skills are invaluable. For a directorial debut, it’s an amazing piece of work; truly, nobody does it better. Supreme moment: the solar-powered torch.

Stephen Chow Sing-Chi Filmography

• 1987
  Just Heroes
• 1988
  Dragon Fight
  Faithfully Yours
  Final Justice
  He Who Chases After the Wind
  The Last Conflict
• 1989
  Thunder Cops & Thunder Cops 2
  The Unmatchable Match
• 1990
  All for the Winner
  Curry and Pepper
  God of Gamblers II
  Legend of the Dragon
  Look Out, Officer!
  Love is Love
  Lung Fung Restaurant
  My Hero
  Sleazy Dizzy
  Triad Story
  When Fortune Smiles
• 1991
  The Banquet
  Crazy Safari
  Fight Back to School
  Fist of Fury 1991 & Fist of Fury 1991 II      
  God of Gamblers III: Back to Shanghai
  Magnificent Scoundrels
  Top Bet [Cameo]
  Tricky Brains
• 1992
  All’s Well, End’s Well
  Fight Back to School II
  Film Without Bounds: the New Hong Kong Cinema
  Justice, My Foot!
  King of Beggars
  Royal Tramp & Royal Tramp II
  Thief of Time
• 1993
  Fight Back to School III
  Flirting Scholar
  Mad Monk
  My Hero 2 [Cameo]
• 1994
• From Beijing with Love [+ Dir & Writer]
  Hail the Judge
  Love on Delivery
• 1995
  A Chinese Odyssey Part One: Pandora’s Box
  A Chinese Odyssey Part Two: Cinderella
  Out of the Dark
  Sixty Million Dollar Man
• 1996
  Forbidden City Cop [+ Writer]
  God of Cookery [+ Prod, Dir & Writer]
• 1997
  All’s Well, End’s Well ‘97
  Lawyer Lawyer
• 1998
  The Lucky Guy
• 1999
  Gorgeous [Cameo]
  King of Comedy                                                                                                                           

Paul Rapovski is one of those rare creatures: a Western martial arts expert who has made a living in the ultra-competitive world of Hong Kong cinema. He’s worked with Jackie Chan on ‘Thunderbolt’ and Jet Li, not only in ‘My Father is a Hero’, but also giving an exceptionally villainous performance in ‘Hitman’, where he runs Li closer than Mel Gibson managed in ‘Lethal Weapon 4’. In addition to this, he was a fight coordinator on John Woo’s television series ‘Once a Thief’, while outside the industry, he speaks 5 languages and has an honours degree from the University of Toronto.

But let’s start at the beginning: Paul took up martial arts at age ten: his mentor, Stephen Law, had the same Wing Chun teacher as a certain Bruce Lee, and encouraged him to go to Hong Kong to learn more. This Paul eventually did, moving there in 1992, both to improve his martial arts skills, and to try and break through into cinema.

While he added Choy Le Fat to his repertoire, and showed a particular aptitude for stick fighting, becoming World Heavyweight Full Contact champion in 1996, it was not all plain sailing. Despite having arranged some roles before going out to Hong Kong, they fell through, as things so often do in the film business: “When I arrived, eager to start filming, the movie was constantly being postponed until they finally called it quits. It was really disappointing.”

However, things turned round shortly afterwards when he met Carter Wong in a gym. “He knew of my teacher in Canada and gave me fight scenes in his upcoming film, as well as two more of his projects. This really encouraged me at that time, and I began to train harder and learn more about the culture so as to better my chances for future films.” Though he’s now returned from Hong Kong for the moment, Paul looks back with obvious warmth on his time there: “I worked with so many great people and stars, each one gave me something that propelled me forward and instilled hope. I gained something from every project I worked on, not only fond memories, but personal achievement and growth.”

One of those people was David Wu, editor on many of John Woo’s films, and a director, actor and scriptwriter (‘Bride With White Hair’) in his own right. “The reason I like working with Paul is that he is a fast thinker. Sometimes it’s necessary to think quickly, especially with regard to script changes, or action scene changes, or set changes.” This is perhaps the main difference between Hong Kong and Hollywood; as Paul puts it, “American films tend to rely on more formulas and less inspiration. Hong Kong films have a unique high energy, fast paced feel about them. Most action is made up on the day of shooting; only the most complicated shots are worked out in advance.”

As a result of his first-hand experience, he can also help nail another myth about Hong Kong action cinema, namely, that each film is built on the shattered bodies of stunt-men: “They rarely ask you to do something that they themselves wouldn’t perform. They’re extremely safety conscious, regardless of the stunt.” He’s only ever received superficial injuries, yet admits that on occasion he has looked back and questioned his own sanity. David Wu agrees, saying: “Paul has no problems crossing the line of safety to make the scenes look more realistic”. Though the hardest thing Rapovski has been asked to do is not a stunt or a fight – it was a love scene: “It just wasn’t in the character to be that way so I convinced them to revise the script!”

Now based back in Toronto, Rapovski continues to be busy. “We finished shooting ‘Millennium Queen’ about a week ago; I play rebel leader Joad, opposite Julie Strain and Jeff Wincott.” Indeed, this project, which saw him both acting and coordinating all the action, has already made an impression on the producers; barely was it completed when the producers were demanding a sequel. What else does he have lined up? “There are so many things on the table, both for the short- and long-term, it’s hard to say which will surface first. Some Asian action film shooting is scheduled for Toronto, but the script is being re-written, so we are still waiting.” Though Rapovski prefers to keep quiet about his personal goals until he has accomplished them, at some point he’d like to get involved in the production side, as well as acting.

In one of the most cut-throat industries around, Paul seems so far to have retained both his inner peace and dignity. If hard work, honesty and genuine respect for the martial arts are worth anything then, whether it’s at home or elsewhere in the world, his future success in the film business would appear to be assured.

Interview by Chris Fata; article by Jim McLennan

In the mid-60’s, Bond was big around the world, but in the States, there was still one problem: he was British. Wouldn’t it be better if he were a square-jawed, red-blooded, all-American kind of guy? Step forward the Conde Nast publishing group, who decided to resurrect Nick Carter, a name which had been a mainstay of pulp fiction since before the turn of the century. Back then, it was as a master of disguise that he made his name; now, he was needed to fight harder than 007 and use cooler gadgets, as well as shag more frequently.

He became Nicholas Carter, N3: top agent, holding a Killmaster rating, of the super-secretive AXE [a surprising nod to the super-secretive NSA, formed in 1952, whose mere charter remains classified even today]. His mission, should he choose to accept it – he inevitably did – was to fight for truth, justice and the American way, in a variety of exotic locations, while enjoying the company of a broad selection of large-breasted women.

To out-007 Ian Fleming, who did a scant dozen Bond books, Conde Nast employed an entire rota of authors (including some well-known names among crime writers), in order to satisfy the public’s lust for spy fiction. This roster approach means severe variation in style, ranging from first-person hard-boiled to third-person soft-focus, yet the audience didn’t seem to mind: as early as the end of 1976, the publishers were trumpeting “Over 20,000,000 Nick Carter books in print”, which is impressive if true. Admittedly, between 1964’s ‘Checkmate in Rio’, and ‘Tunnel For Traitors’ in 1986, Conde Nast published over two hundred and fifty in all, at a rate of roughly a dozen per year. This huge volume of output helps explain the sales figures, though it’s still highly respectable even on a per-novel average.

I stumbled across my first on holiday, an impressionable youth browsing a used bookshop in a North of Scotland coastal town. Since then, I’ve read the best part of a hundred; almost all, like the first, acquired second-hand – as with Shaun Hutson novels, it’s an unexplained mystery of the universe how they rarely seem to appear anywhere else. From Malaga to Vienna to Aberdeen, I’ve bought ‘em on sight: the vast majority unashamed pot-boilers, and just as unashamedly entertaining, literary candy-floss with no pretensions to gravitas, possessing lurid covers perhaps surpassed only by James Hadley Chase books. And while some were reprinted for years after their original appearance, others were more topical, such as N3 tracking down the man behind the bombing of the Beirut Marine compound.

Various attempts have been made to film Carter’s exploits, all the way back to ‘Nick Carter, le Roi des Détectives’ in 1908. At various times, Italians, Czechs and Americans (most notably with Walter Pidgeon playing ‘Nick Carter – Master Detective’) had a shot, but never quite realised the potential, despite the growing gap in the market as James Bond softened from the hard psycho-bastard of the early films. Certainly, most of the Carter oeuvre, especially in the 60’s, would have been too violent and way too sexy for a direct translation. However, as the years wore on, they ceased to be quite so extreme – or, rather, while the books remained steadfastly tough and ruthless, the mainstream caught up with and bypassed them.

In the end, this may have been their downfall: just as nudist camp films and H.G.Lewis’s splatter movies lost their audience when Hollywood woke up to the appeal of exploitation, so the factors which allowed Nick to shift titles by the tens of millions in his prime were slowly metabolized into popular culture. You want sex and violence, they’re now available from every bookshop, without the need to wrap them up as a spy thriller.

It may be hard to envisage a time when Variety could make the statement at the top of this page with a perfectly straight face, but Nick Carter has bounced back before from obscurity, and I wouldn’t bet against a 21st century re-incarnation. Till then, he may be gone, but in TC-Land, he is not forgotten.

The many faces of Nick Carter